


Come and Go With Me

by somnolentblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Metaphysical Sex, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:26:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnolentblue/pseuds/somnolentblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows that she is metal, destined for the scrap yard when she can no longer carry her boys, but she is also herself, Pala, sleek and smooth and strong, capable of cradling her boys when they sleep and guarding them from the monsters that still lurk in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come and Go With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the prompt "CAR PORN. Dean's '67 Chevy Impala and Death's '59 Cadillac Coupe de Ville" at [](http://spn-bitesized.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**spn_bitesized**](http://spn-bitesized.dreamwidth.org/)'s Kink Meme. Many thanks to [](http://anaraine.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**anaraine**](http://anaraine.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta; any remaining errors are my own. Feedback is love, and concrit is welcomed.

If you're around long enough, if you're loved by people powerful enough, you start to transcend the sum of your parts. She knows that she is metal, destined for the scrap yard when she can no longer carry her boys, but she is also herself, Pala, sleek and smooth and strong, capable of cradling her boys when they sleep and guarding them from the monsters that still lurk in the dark.

She would be happier if Sam and Dean stayed with her all the time, but her boys are too big for her, really, even though they all fit together perfectly. Still, she is Dean as Sam is Dean as Sam is she and they are all together, her and Sam and Dean, and they are never going to be apart again, not like those blank months when she was confined to suburban streets, restless and prowling and wondering where her Sammy was and why her Dean was there but not with her and when they would run together again.

And the other metalself, the one who is always there and not-there, sliding against her doors with its cool white sides, showing up before them and after them, gleaming at her and mocking her with its cheeky BUH*BYE plates, isn't going to harm them. She shifts to her spiritself, forged through the years by the thoughts of Mary and John and then Dean and Sam, her shining people who defeated angels and demons and pop music and made her Pala instead of just a car, and stands before her metalself. She looks at it, and it just sits there beside her in the church parking lot. "Stand and unfold yourself," she demands.

The other metalself shimmers, and its spiritself emerges. It grins. "Hi!" it says. "You are alive! I thought so, but then Himself argued with me and we've been at a stalemate. I'll get to say I told you so! That's so cool! And Hamlet! I'll get you a copy of his latest – his postmortal stuff is so much more awesome than his premortal stuff! But, yeah, hi! It's so great to finally meet you! I'm Taxes!"

Throughout the torrent of words it was shifting, flipping through one shape and then another. Finally, it settles into a shape not unlike Dean's, pale silver feet peaking out from under worn jeans and fingers tapping out a rhythm against its thighs. She recognizes Enter Sandman and arches an eyebrow. "Taxes?"

"Yup!" It bounces on its heels a little and then clambers up onto its metalself's hood, legs swinging back and forth. "As in Death and. Himself was trying to make a joke, so this form became Taxes after I pestered him for a few millenia. Well, relative millenia – this whole omnipresent thing makes time kind of funky. He calls my otherselves different things, of course, but he says _I'm_ annoying and _we're_ inevitable, so Taxes!" It bounces off the hood and does a handstand. "I like this shape! I should talk to you more often!" it proclaims.

She's a little bewildered – it's like Dean after a few dozen pixie stixs, when Sam starts talking about tying him to the hood. This is inevitably followed by lewd comments about someone named Zoe Bell and Sam sounding like he's about to choke. She's kind of fond of it in Dean, although the way he starts tapping his fingers on her wheel sometimes tickles and she may growl a few times, but she's not so sure about Taxes.

It straightens up, pulls its shirt down, and looks at her. It stops grinning, and its serious demeanor is even more unsettling than its cracked-out gerbil imitation. "Sweetheart, we're Death," Taxes says gently. "Here and now we're car-shaped and human-shaped, but our selves look like who you think your end will be. For you, it's Dean, who's already resurrected you once."

"Huh," she says. "So us maneuvering you into a parking spot surrounded by iron and in the middle of a devil's trap inscribed in paint liberally mixed with holy water and salt on consecrated ground isn't doing anything, is it?" She stands down, a bit, and perches on her metalself's hood. She's still going to kick Taxes' ass if it threatens her boys (or, okay, try to [and there's a lot of raw power in her lately to give it a good try, thank you Castiel] even if the whole Death thing might be a little out of her reach, although she'll never admit it), but it looks like she's not going to have to. At least not tonight.

It laughs and sits beside her. It feels good, running its fingers along her hood and smelling of gasoline and leather. "Nope! I'm a de Ville, not a devil! Besides, it's a little early in our relationship for bondage, don't you think? We did think it was pretty gutsy, though. Himself's actually waiting around for the rest of Miss Mary Mac when your boys get done with the salt and burn. He'll make sure her spirit shuffles off for good. In the meantime, wanna have some fun?" Taxes waggles its eyebrows exaggeratedly, and she laughs and shoves it off of her hood.

It pouts at her and gives her an approximation of what Dean calls Sammy's puppy dog eyes, an expression he practiced in her rearview mirror for hours while waiting for John or Dean. However, it keeps its distance until she pulls it back in by the belt-loops. She kisses it, and she feels it deep in her spiritself and metalself. She pulls it down on top of her and then flips them so that it's wedged between her metalself and her spiritself, back to her windshield and legs on her hood with her straddling its legs. She looks down at it and smiles. It grins at her and slowly pulls its legs up behind her, feet caressing her hood and making her shiver.

"That's not exactly fair," she points out, leaning back against its legs, "what with your metalself being over there and my selves being right here and subject to your machinations."

"Well, we could switch locales," it points out.

"Nah," she says, leaning down and kissing it. "I'm not that kind of girl." With that, she merges her selves again, her spiritself sinking through it into her metalself. She shakes at the intensity – it's _old_ and _vast_ and entirely outside of her experience, it reaches in her and through her and penetrates every bit of her conscious self, it feels like sliding into 100 on a flat Texas road and the first time out after Dean tunes her and both of her boys being back in her again – and settles back into herself with a sigh. If what Dean does in the backseat (and in the front seat and on the hood and bent over the trunk once or twice) feels half as good, well, she's surprised he's not doing it _all the time_. Although if he loses another used condom she's going to eat all of his tapes.

Taxes laughs from its sprawl on her hood. "Darling," it says, "you're absolutely that kind of girl." It slides off of her, soft denim rubbing against her and making her rumble, and does another handstand, facing her this time. She blinks her headlights and purrs. It cartwheels over to its metalself and then freefalls forward and merges. She enjoys her afterglow.

Its spiritself pops back out. "Light of my headlight, gas of my engine, fairest Chevy in all the land – what is your name?"

She grins and separates. "Pala," she says and sinks back down. It's afterglow time, not talking time! Taxes would have to learn some manners if this happens again.

The next time she sees the cheeky little BUH*BYE plate in front of her, it's possible she speeds up a bit while Sam listens to Dean bitch at him about not keeping a steady speed. The next time Taxes runs beside her, it's possible she leans into the caress while Dean curses and tries to straighten out her wheels. The next time their spiritselves manifest together, it's possible they switch locales. Maybe.


End file.
